With Love's Wound
by paranoidkitten
Summary: Hermione's support of inter-house co-operation seems to extend to a secret sapphic Slytherin affair. Ginny's convinced there's a love potion involved. And what's going on with Harry and the Order is anyone's guess. (Femmeslash) WIP.
1. Chapter 1

_"Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell.  
It fell upon a little western flower;  
Before, milk-white; now purple with love's wound –  
And maidens call it Love-in-idleness."_  
-- **A Midsummer Night's Dream**  
  
**Summer At Grimmauld Place**

The thing was, mused Ginny, that she should be _used_ to feeling not quite at home. The Burrow was home, or supposed to be home, but she hadn't spent more than a fortnight there since the summer after her second year. And Hogwarts was never going to be home, because it was _school_, and even though she wasn't the type to get homesick – how could she, when she always had her brothers in school with her? It was almost like being at home, and she didn't have her mother fussing over her the whole time, either – she could never quite settle in there, knowing she'd be leaving when the holidays came, and knowing that within a few years she'd have left the school behind completely. 

Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, though, was the least home-like place she had ever lived in, and while she understood – logically, at any rate – that her parents wanted to spend the summer here, working with the Ministry to prepare plans of attack, and sharing the information that the Order had gleaned over the past year with them, and whatever else they were doing, she didn't particularly want to be spending her summer holed up in this dark, foreboding house in the middle of a city. At least at The Burrow she'd be able to get out and play Quidditch. She was itching to get onto a broomstick; it felt like it had been years since she'd last flown, and how was she meant to get onto the Gryffindor team when school began if she hadn't had any practice? 

Instead, she had her mother trying to get her to help out with taking care of the house, which seemed to mean tidying rooms that in Ginny's eyes were perfectly respectable already, and making dinner for everyone who was staying at the house or who decided to turn up for meals. She'd thought that the Order wouldn't need to keep meeting anymore now that the Ministry believed You-Know-Who (one of these days, she promised herself, she would be able to say his name) had returned. But the meetings continued, and of course she wasn't privy to what was going on – oh no. She had just about figured out that there was some dissatisfaction with the way the Ministry were handling things, and that the Order had their own plans, but what those plans might be, she had no idea. 

She'd thought maybe Tonks might tell her _something_, but Tonks was being as vague as the rest of them, and tried – rather obviously – to change the subject every time Ginny began quizzing her. Ginny's romantic entanglements seemed to be the easiest thing to talk about, and Ginny had to admit that if she were living in the same house as someone who was getting almost daily owls from boys, she'd be curious too. 

Of course, she wasn't living in the same house as someone. She _was_ that someone, and the whole thing was starting to grate on her nerves just a little, to the point where the arrival of the morning owls filled her with dread. Who would it be today? Whose drawn-out and ultimately pointless ramble would she be reading over breakfast? 

Michael wrote tales of how wonderful Cho was in a rather transparent attempt to make her jealous and see what she was missing out on. Ginny had little or no interest in hearing about Cho's perfect lips or her delicate ankles or her silky hair – well, she had made a mental note concerning the ankles. If that were as delicate as Michael claimed then surely she could use that to her advantage somehow when they were playing in a match. As far as Ginny was concerned, and from what Hermione had told her about Harry's relationship with Cho, she and Michael were welcome to each other. 

Neville wrote to her to describe his day and tried to be chatty and light and suggested that perhaps she might like to stay with him over the summer at some point, seeing as they'd "been through so much together". Ginny had been politely putting him off, saying that she was needed here, but now there was talk of him visiting London and naturally if he was in the vicinity, they should converse over a Butterbeer or two, as there was something he'd been meaning to say to her, something that he didn't want to write in a letter. 

She didn't think it was entirely arrogant to assume that this thing he wanted to say to her was of a romantic nature. She knew he was interested in her, and she had to admit that she'd encouraged it somewhat. It was only Neville, after all. He was a nice boy, and friendly, and she couldn't help but feel a little sorry for him. It couldn't hurt to smile at him, or to strike up conversations with him when he looked particularly forlorn, and now she was paying the price for it. She hadn't expected him to become so persistent. Friendship was one thing, but she was starting to feel smothered by all this attention. Harry and Ron were best friends, after all, and they'd managed to survive these first few weeks of summer without sharing every single thought that came into their heads with one another. It felt as though Neville was determined to jot down every mundane thing that he experienced and send these letters off to her, topped off with an attempt to play on the solidarity they should feel after being in the DA and facing Death Eaters together. 

She had also experienced these things with Luna, she thought, and Luna didn't feel inclined to remind her of it every day or two. In fact, she'd only heard from Luna once since the summer began – and while she appreciated the sentiment, Luna's advice on how to deal with Blibbering Humdingers, should she come across any, had so far failed to be relevant to Ginny's summer. Still, at least Luna didn't feel the need to bombard her with letters. 

And then there was Dean, and while Ginny had been rather taken with him towards the end of the school year, she was finding that behind the façade, he wasn't all that interesting. He was still trying to convert her to football, even though she'd explained over and over that while lots of men kicking a ball around sounded all right, she didn't really need regular updates on how West Ham were doing and which of the players he admired the most and the intricacies of the sport explained to her. 

All in all, she was heartily sick of all three of them. Her responses were growing shorter and shorter in the hope that at least one of them would take the hint, but she couldn't bring herself to be outright rude to any of them. They were being friendly, after all, it was just that – well, it was a lot to take, especially considering she didn't have much to distract her in Grimmauld Place. She missed Fred and George sorely. They visited on occasion, but it wasn't the same. And Percy had yet to effect a reconciliation with the rest of the family. He was so stubborn, Ginny thought angrily. Fudge had accepted that he'd been wrong – well, more or less – but Percy seemed determined to continue cutting himself off from his family. There was a permanent weariness etched on her father's face that had nothing to do with the fight against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. 

She lay back on her bed and sighed. This summer certainly wasn't turning out to be one of the best she'd ever had. The fact that doing her homework had seemed like an appealing idea was a testament to that. It was the first time she hadn't found herself rushing to get everything done in the last week of the holidays. Hermione was going to be rather impressed. At the very least, she wouldn't deliver one of those lectures about getting things done early so that you had extra time to enjoy yourself – which in Hermione's case usually meant doing extra work. 

According to Ron, Hermione was going to arrive sometime next week. He'd had a rather big smile on his face as he spread the news. Ginny wasn't sure whether he was excited about Hermione coming simply because it was Hermione, or because he wanted to have someone else of his own age around, someone that wasn't his little sister. Ginny had already heard; Hermione wrote to her as well. Hermione was, after all, going to be sharing a room with her. Ginny had kept that side of the room clear of all her belongings, knowing that Hermione was going to be there at some stage. It was strange to have so much space to herself, though, and to sleep alone. At school there were always her roommates, and Hermione was usually around during the summer. It had been something that had been difficult to get used to when she first started at Hogwarts. She'd found herself tossing and turning, distracted by the sounds of the other girls' breathing. The tables had turned since; it was the silence that was disconcerting now. 

She'd been intimidated by Hermione once upon a time, she remembered with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. Ron came home with tales of this smart and brave girl after his first year, and in between complaining about what a know-it-all she was, he found the time to throw in a few complimentary remarks. And Ginny had dreamed that when she went to Hogwarts, this girl would look after her, like a surrogate older sister, and they would whisper secrets to one another late at night. 

But on her first trip on the Hogwarts Express, she'd been too worried about Harry and Ron and wondering what could have happened to them that she hadn't even thought about making friends. Even being Sorted into Gryffindor didn't ease the panicky feeling in her stomach. What on earth could have happened to them? Even though her mother had sent her to bed before Ron finished relating his story about what had happened to Harry the previous year, she knew that he was the sort of boy that things happened to. Bad things. And Ron was with him, and they hadn't arrived yet . . . 

Once all that had been sorted out, she'd wondered about this Hermione girl again, but by the time she was finally introduced properly to Hermione, she realised something very important – she was far too shy to approach Hermione when she was alone, and when she was around Ron, thus perhaps giving Ginny an excuse to go over, Harry was there too, and whenever Ginny went near Harry, she made a fool of herself. She couldn't help it. She hated feeling that way, so embarrassed and unsure of herself, but at the same time, why shouldn't she? She was a year younger than him and she hadn't done anything spectacular in her life. She certainly hadn't had people celebrating her for most of her life. She couldn't even settle into Hogwarts the way everyone else seemed to so effortlessly. As a Weasley, she had a name to live up to. She was either supposed to be Quidditch material or Prefect material or hero material, and she was none of these things. She wasn't as brave as Ron and she wasn't as amusing as Fred and George, and by the time it came around to her first flying lesson, she was so downhearted that she hadn't managed to excel in any way, even though she _knew_ that this, at least, was something she should be good at. 

She'd had Tom as her friend that year, anyway, scribbling away in her diary and being secure in the knowledge that at least someone wanted to listen to her. And then – _don't think about it, don't think about it_ – then events had happened, and she had ended up in the hospital wing with Madam Pomfrey looking after her, and a just-revived Hermione in the next bed. Ginny had been terrified that the students who'd been Petrified would blame her, that there'd be some kind of announcement about how she'd been so _stupid_ as to listen to Tom and for the rest of her time at Hogwarts she'd just be the girl who almost got everyone killed, but there was no mention of it, and when she'd related her story to Hermione, nervously, she'd received the same sort of understanding that Dumbledore had provided. "Well, how could you have known? I mean, obviously it wasn't the _brightest_ idea to write to someone you didn't know, but you couldn't have been expected to know that he was _evil_, Ginny, of course not." 

Between Dumbledore's and Hermione's reactions, she'd almost managed to forget about how angry her father had been over the whole incident. He'd apologised later, of course, but she knew it was difficult for him to understand his only daughter. The boys he could handle, but she was different. 

She had been friends with Hermione ever since, more or less. Hermione made an effort to be friendly even if she was really visiting to see Ron, and this didn't change even when school began. The summer after her second year had been spent sharing first her room and then a tent with Hermione, and even though she knew Hermione's _best_ friends were Harry and Ron, she also knew that she was Hermione's friend, too. She knew things that they didn't. She knew that Hermione sometimes thought she liked Ron, but every so often he'd do something _stupid_ and she'd realise that it would never work out. She knew that Hermione was slightly uncomfortable with how much Viktor liked her, but that she liked being _liked_. In return, Ginny told her about her infatuation with Harry, the way she'd told Tom, but this time, discussing it made it less intense, rather than more, and at some point she realised that she was actually over Harry. She admired him, of course, and she was forever grateful to him for saving her life, but the dreams about marrying him suddenly seemed a little silly. 

She could talk to Hermione about things like her relationship with Michael without Hermione getting giggly and silly about how _cute_ he was. The girls in her dormitory thought he was "a bit of all right" and while it was fun to squeal over how handsome he was with them, she needed someone to talk to whenever things weren't going so well, or whenever it seemed like having a boyfriend was just too much _work_. As far as her room-mates were concerned, she was the luckiest girl in the world to be Michael Corner's girlfriend, to have an older boy and a Quidditch player interested in her. "Hold on to that one," Lizzie had said wisely, but Hermione offered a different perspective. She thought it was _ridiculous_ that girls let themselves be walked all over by boys just because they thought they needed to be submissive for their relationship to work. She didn't understand how any intelligent girl could put up with boys behaving idiotically. 

Ginny needed someone like that in her life. She wasn't sure whether what she had with Hermione now was quite the sister-like relationship she'd dreamed of once upon a time, but it was a friendship she appreciated, all the same. She didn't believe Hermione to be infallible anymore, didn't believe that her cleverness meant that she could never be wrong, but she still admired her somewhat. 

It would be nice, she thought, to have Hermione around the place. She was just worried that Ron would try to monopolise her time, and that Ginny would only get to see her when they woke up in the morning and went to sleep at night. But then she contemplated the possibility of her brother and Hermione spending time together without a buffer and realised they'd last about a day without having some sort of fight. 

It was a reassuring thought. Besides, Hermione was hardly going to ignore her. She would have things to tell Ginny that she wouldn't be able to tell Ron, or wouldn't want to, and even though Ginny knew it was silly to worry so much about whether she'd be included in anything even after everything that had happened over the last year, she still found herself hoping that she would be a part of things. 

Being the baby of the family meant that she was constantly being fussed over by her mother and dismissed by her older brothers. But she was sick of being told that she was too young to do this, too young to hear that. Even after everything that had happened at the Department of Mysteries, she still had no idea what the Order were planning or why she couldn't help them. She had nearly two years to go before she turned seventeen and even then they probably wouldn't let her join, if they'd refused Fred and George while they were still in school, and if their work was so important that they had to hold secret meetings instead of co-ordinating these efforts with the Ministry, then why didn't they need all the help they could get? 

She wasn't a child, despite what her mother thought. She'd survived being possessed by You-Know-Who – didn't that count for _anything?_ Didn't they understand that if there was going to be an attack on him, she wanted to be involved? 

She'd talked to Ron about it, but he didn't know any more than she did, and at any rate, while he wanted to be involved in the Order too, he still thought she was too young. As though a year made such a huge difference, she thought irritably. She was better at hexing people than he was, too. 

Maybe Hermione would be able to figure out a way to find out what the Order were planning, Ginny thought. And perhaps, while she was at it, figure out a way that Ginny could practise Quidditch this summer. At this rate of going, she'd have forgotten how to fly by the time term started. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Entertaining The Johnsons**

Hermione was sick of smiling brightly. She could be in Bulgaria now, fighting off Viktor's affections – not that it seemed like a terribly appealing option. She could be revising the year's work; Professor McGonagall said that the syllabus for the OWLs provided the basis for the NEWTs and that it was well worth looking over the material that had been on her exams for revision purposes. She had a collection of books from the library upstairs; Madam Pince had made an exception and let her take a few texts home for the summer, although she'd been warned that if any of them were returned with the slightest bit of damage, she'd be paying for it for the rest of her schooldays. She could be reading up on Defence Against The Dark Arts, even if it was frustrating not to be able to _practise_ – why on earth, she wondered, wasn't the Minister making concessions and allowing underage wizards to practise defence? – or rolling her eyes at what _The Quibbler_ had to say for themselves this month, or watching paint dry, or doing anything, really, anything but sit and make small talk with friends of her parents who had no _idea_ that the darkest wizard of the last century was alive and well and not too fond of Muggle-borns. 

They didn't even know what Muggles were. They didn't know that they were Muggles. As far as they were concerned, they were just ordinary Mr and Mrs Johnson. And to top it all off, Jill had come along, too. 

The Johnsons and the Grangers had been friends for quite some time. Mr Johnson was a dentist, too. Mrs Johnson was the odd one out, being a psychiatrist, and it was this fact which made Hermione's parents so very worried about what little details their daughter might let slip. 

She knew that Mrs Johnson would think she was certifiable if she started babbling on about witches and wizards and magic. Of course she knew that. She was hardly going to start off a conversation with, "So, what do you think about the plight of house-elves, Mrs Johnson?" now, was she? The reminders that had come from both her parents before the Johnsons' arrival really hadn't been necessary. 

She was used to keeping secrets when she was at home. Even though her parents enquired about her schoolwork and what Hogwarts was like, she knew that it was easier for them to pretend that she was just a normal girl. She'd disappointed them in some ways, she knew. They'd had grand plans for her. They hadn't expected her to be whisked away from them. They had no real idea of what the wizarding world was like. She certainly hadn't mentioned Voldemort to them. They'd want to keep her away from school, to keep her at home with them, because in their minds home was the safest place to be. She'd offered to let her mum borrow _Hogwarts: A History_ once, but now she realised that neither of her parents really wanted to know. 

And there were other secrets, too, she thought, biting on her lip because she felt she had to do _something_ whenever that occurred to her, as though there had to be physical proof of what was going through her mind. 

This wasn't the time to be thinking about any of her secrets, anyway. Mr Johnson was asking her about GCSEs. 

"They went quite well," she said, smiling and nodding. Well, she was sure they would have, if she'd been in a Muggle school. Sometimes she wondered just what she was missing out on. She had a few Muggle textbooks up in her room, trying to get an idea of the sort of knowledge that "normal" teenagers were being taught, but it wasn't the same as attending classes. 

"Jill had a bit of trouble with Maths," Mr Johnson said conspiratorially. "Not her strongest subject. She couldn't quite come to grips with it." 

Jill looked thoroughly annoyed at her father discussing her academic ability like this. "Dad. Stop." 

"Some people just aren't mathematically inclined," he continued. 

"And the examination system is really only geared towards one type of ability, anyway," Hermione said brightly. "You could be, as you put it, 'mathematically inclined', but perhaps not respond to the teaching methods, or the testing methods. It's a tricky one, isn't it?" 

She could go on like this for a while, she thought. She had a copy of _Wizarding Education Throughout The World_ among the books in her room. It was the same argument with different subjects. And she was fed up with nodding and smiling. 

Jill looked at her gratefully. That, too, was a very good reason to keep going. 

Jill had been her best friend once upon a time, before everything changed and a whole new world was opened up to her. Jill was at the school they'd both intended to go to, having the sort of teenage life that they'd both dreamt of when they were younger. Jill had been rather huffy when Hermione had had to go off to boarding school suddenly, seeing it as a personal betrayal. They didn't write to one another, but saw each other most summers owing to their parents' friendship. 

Jill wasn't a friend anymore, but maybe that would have happened anyway, even if they'd gone to the same school. Jill was wearing her hair in pigtails and it was blonde now, instead of the ordinary brown colour it had always been. Apparently she was trying to look like someone called Baby Spice and after a confusing conversation in which Hermione had insisted that really, she wasn't against pop music as an act of rebellion and no she wasn't into "grunge" either and she didn't mind what kind of music Jill was into, the matter had been dropped. 

But even though they couldn't quite connect anymore, she still felt as though she owed Jill something. It wasn't Jill's fault that Hermione had spent the last five years of her life getting involved with dangerous situations and encountering the sort of things that Jill could only imagine and that she didn't have access to a television during the school year, after all. As far as Jill was concerned, Hermione was a perfectly normal, average girl just like her, if a bit of a swot. 

Normal. As in, not deviating from the norm, her brain offered helpfully. 

She had only a vague idea of the statistics because she didn't want to actually go and research this topic, but she was certain that, yes, she was deviating from the norm. 

And not just because she was a witch. 

Mr Johnson was impressed with her point of view on education. Hermione had a sneaking suspicion that he was going to go home and ask Jill why she couldn't be more like Hermione. 

She knew that her own parents were going to ask her why couldn't she be more like Jill. Jill, athletic and popular, someone who didn't spend her summer with a nose in a musty old book. The subtext was clear: why can't you be a normal girl? Why do you have to be a witch? 

She thought of the book she had upstairs and sighed. She'd been half-avoiding it, and it was currently under her bed, so that her parents wouldn't see it – not that it would mean anything to them if they did see it. _The Trials and Tribulations of Oswald Beamish_ wasn't a title that meant anything to them. It hadn't meant anything to her, at first. She'd got it out of the library because she wanted to research his life. Professor Binns had mentioned that his role in working towards rights for goblins, and she'd hoped that by reading up a bit about him, she might get some new ideas for S.P.E.W. 

Madam Pince had given her a funny look, and about one-third of the way through the book Hermione had figured out why. 

_Beamish's affair with an older wizard, listed in court records only as EG, was to be the catalyst for his downfall. Beamish's enemies saw this relationship as an opportunity to attack him, knowing that he would lose all credibility among his peers while engaging in such an "unnatural love" (see Chapter Four for the entire text of one particular attack)._

She'd had to reread that paragraph before it actually sunk in. With an older wizard – oh. _Oh._ Funny how that part of the story had never been mentioned in school, or for that matter, any other book she'd consulted. Was this why the book was kept in the Restricted Section? 

She'd read the rest of the book – always hiding it, guiltily, whenever she could hear one of her parents on their way upstairs, just in case they'd walk in and see her reading and _know_, and it was stupid, she knew, but it was how she felt – and had come to the conclusion that the only reason it had been placed in the Restricted Section was, in fact, because it discussed the relationship between Beamish and this EG. 

And it didn't matter that it was hardly complimentary – Hermione had a feeling that while the author approved of Beamish's work with the goblins, he entirely disapproved of Beamish letting himself fall in love with another man – it still acknowledged it. 

Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself, she'd reminded herself, but it had taken her four years to speak Voldemort's name aloud and she had a feeling it was going to be another four years before she could say _gay_ or _homosexual_ out loud too. 

But she wasn't _afraid_. She was just – uncomfortable. And it bothered her that she was uncomfortable, because she knew what she should be doing. She should be preparing an argument as to why this book should not be tucked away in the Restricted Section, because there was no reason it shouldn't be available to all students, except perhaps bigotry, which she was fiercely opposed to. 

But this was different. If she took this up as her latest crusade, people would think things about her. 

Why did she care what people thought of her? She shouldn't. 

But she did. She had to spend the better part of the year with these people. She had another two years at Hogwarts left. She had to share classes and a common room and a dormitory with some of them. It was impossible to live in your own little world at Hogwarts, unless of course you were Luna – and she didn't want to be Luna, thank you very much. Luna was off the wall, and even though she'd been quite useful at times, it didn't mean Hermione wanted to emulate her way of living. 

She could just imagine Luna's reaction to reading something like this. She'd take it in her stride, probably. Luna probably wouldn't blink an eyelid even if Beamish and EG came to life right in front of her eyes and started having sex right there and then. 

Luna wouldn't care if people thought she had a personal agenda in starting a campaign. For all Hermione knew, Luna was a – 

It was funny, the word starting with an _l_ scared her more than both of the other two. She didn't even want to think about that one. 

Not that she herself was – except maybe she _was_, because that would explain everything. But she'd know, wouldn't she? It wasn't like she was interested in girls. Looking up to people, or being friends with them – that didn't mean she wanted to _do_ anything with them. 

On the other hand, she wasn't like Parvati and Lavender, who were _girly_-girls, who knew all the make-up charms and could work them as easily as breathing, and who held breathy conversations about boys who were cute. 

Hermione, when she took part or listened in to these discussions, agreed, mostly, on their choices. But she didn't understand why they wanted to discuss these boys in such great detail, or how they could sigh about someone's hair or nose or arms or whatever it was. 

They thought she was either in love with Harry or Ron, anyway. Last year she'd told them she wrote to Viktor, and they'd squealed and sighed and said that long-distance romances were really special. 

She didn't have the heart to tell them that while she enjoyed her correspondence with Viktor, she wasn't entirely bothered by the fact that he was in a different country and wouldn't be around to try to convince her to sneak off somewhere and demonstrate their love for one another. Words on a page were much safer. 

It had stopped them asking questions about whether she preferred Harry or Ron, though, which was a relief as she'd started to feel as though she had to choose properly, as though whatever she said would influence her friendships with them. She loved both of them, that was the thing, but she wasn't in love with either of them. She wanted to save them, to protect them, to be there for them. She might been able to be in love with Harry if she'd understood him better, but she knew she was never going to understand what it was like to have grown up with the Dursleys and have faced the things he'd faced. She might have been able to be in love with Ron – and at one point she'd thought, maybe, maybe – if he hadn't been so infuriating. 

That was three boys in her life, three potential romantic interests for a perfectly normal heterosexual girl, and she wasn't in love with any of them. 

And she was hiding _The Trials and Tribulations of Oswald Beamish_ under her bed. 

She didn't particularly want to draw conclusions but even without making any definite decision, she knew that she was not normal. 

The dream hadn't helped, either, but she definitely wasn't going to think about that. Because it couldn't have meant anything. If it had been someone else – Ginny, or Tonks, or even Jill – then she might have been a bit worried. But when her dream seductress hadn't even been someone she liked in a friendly way – well, it was clearly just one of those random things. It was a terribly obvious interpretation of her dream, anyway, and even though she didn't have much faith in dream interpretation, she had a feeling that if Trelawney, or perhaps even someone who knew what they were talking about, were to analyse her dream, they'd find it hadn't meant anything as obvious as _that_. It probably meant fear of death or something. 

Or a desire to see the houses unite. Yes, she decided, that was what it had been about. The kiss was symbolic. It didn't mean that she wanted to be kissed. It was just a sign of forgiveness, perhaps, of letting bygones be bygones, of putting the rivalry between the houses aside and working together for a better future. 

This was hardly the time to be thinking about these things, anyway. Her mum was handing out cups of tea and offering around sugar-free biscuits, and Hermione was sure that if any one of them looked closely at her, they would be able to read her mind, regardless of their lack of Legilimency powers. 

It was this sort of paranoid behaviour, more than anything, that made her think that on some level, there was something going on, and she didn't like it. 

If it had been anyone else, she would have been – she liked to think she would have been, at any rate – supportive and understanding and open-minded and tolerant. But it wasn't anyone else. It was her. 

Maybe there were just too many secrets to keep. At least when she was with the Weasleys at Grimmauld Place she wouldn't have to hide the fact that she was a witch. And maybe being around her friends would help. She was isolated here, with just her parents and the occasional guest. Even though she knew they missed her, she was starting to feel more and more detached from them. It was natural – she was in boarding school for most of the year, and she lived in a different world, a world they didn't understand. They had different lives. The time they spent together each year was growing shorter and shorter. Sometimes she wondered what it would be like if she was living at home and going to Jill's school, whether she would be closer to her mum and dad and tell them, if not secrets, then at least some details about her daily goings-on. 

In just a few days she'd be around Ron and Ginny, both of whom seemed delighted that she was going to be visiting. She could only imagine how dull the place must be without Fred and George around. Not that she approved of their antics, of course, but she had to admit they did make life interesting. And she had to admire their nerve. Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes was already a thriving business, from what she'd heard. For a couple of eighteen-year-olds it was pretty impressive, even if it would have been more sensible to stay on and get their NEWTs first of all. 

On the other hand, Umbridge had been utterly rotten. Hermione's fists clenched automatically just thinking about that woman. If they didn't get a decent Defence teacher this year, she was going to take drastic action. They needed to learn how to defend themselves, to prepare for the worst. 

For a moment she thought she'd be better off staying at home after all, and burying her head in the sand and pretending she'd never heard of Voldemort and had no magical powers whatsoever and avoiding the entire wizarding world. 

That wasn't an option, she told herself firmly. She was going to go and stay at the Order headquarters next week and immerse herself in the world she belonged to. 

And she wasn't going to think about that other thing. No. Definitely not. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Arrivals**

While the second bed in Ginny's room remained untouched, ready for Hermione's arrival, the second bed in Ron's room was being used to store everything from schoolbooks to clothes to various tricks the twins had sent him the other day. Ginny glanced over at it warily before perching at the end of Ron's bed instead. 

"Have you heard from Harry lately?" she enquired, and then, upon seeing the look of delight in Ron's eyes, wished she hadn't asked. 

"Nah, he's been a bit quiet. Think he needs some time to himself, you know, after Sirius, and everything. If you're so interested, you should write to him yourself," Ron suggested. 

"I was just wondering," she said. "I'm not interested in Harry that way, you know that." 

"Yeah, but you were, and – look, I'd rather you go out with someone like Harry, who we can trust, instead of someone like Dean. I mean, Dean's all right and all, but I don't want him going near you, Ginny." 

"You're being ridiculous. I'm not interested in Harry and if it makes you feel any better, I'm not that interested in Dean either, all right? I thought I was, but I'm not." 

Ron looked visibly relieved at this new bit of information, but then he frowned. "There's no one else, is there? Michael's out of the picture, isn't he?" 

"Of course he is," Ginny said smoothly. "He's going out with Cho, remember?" 

"Yeah. Well. Just watch it, okay?" 

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Could you – for even five minutes, even – remember that I'm not a little kid? I don't need you worrying about my love life, thank you very much. Let's talk about yours, how about that?" 

"All right, all right, I'll shut up," Ron said. He glanced over at the bed. "I got a letter from Percy." 

Ginny immediately jumped up and went to look for it. 

"It's no use," Ron called. "I ripped it up." 

Ginny glared at him. "Why? You could have at least shown me before doing something stupid like that, Ron. He's our _brother_. I know you find it easy to hate him but some of us don't, all right?" She was afraid she was going to cry. Why was Percy writing to Ron, anyway? Why was Ron the only one he cared about? 

"All right," Ron said awkwardly. "Look, I'm sorry, but he really is a git, and you know that. Remember last Christmas? He didn't even bother to come see Dad after he'd been attacked! As far as I'm concerned, he's not my brother anymore." 

Ginny sighed, but she wasn't sure what to say. She couldn't defend Percy's actions. She did hate him sometimes, for everything he'd done, for the way he'd upset her parents, for the way he'd been so stubborn and _blind_, but she still wanted to make sure he was safe, that he was okay. 

She decided a change of subject was the safest option. "When's Hermione getting here, anyway?" 

"This evening, I think," Ron said. "Mum's made a cake." 

"Think we can have some now?" Ginny said hopefully. 

"She's put a Repelling Charm on it, you can't get near it," Ron sighed. 

"What kind of cake is it?" 

"Chocolate." Ron's sigh was even heavier this time. 

"Hermione had better get here soon," Ginny grinned. "I'm starving." 

Hermione arrived just before dinner. Ron scrambled downstairs to help her carry her trunk in, while Ginny followed at a more leisurely pace. She noted Ron's chivalry and wondered whether there was something more to it. 

"Hi, Hermione," she grinned. "Mum's made a cake." 

"It's chocolate," Ron added. 

They made it all the way up to Ginny's room – now Ginny and Hermione's room, for the rest of the summer – before exchanging hugs. There was a stiffness about Hermione that hadn't been there before. She wanted to ask, but held back. Ron was still hovering around. Besides, it probably wasn't anything serious. 

When they went downstairs for dinner, Lupin and Tonks were carrying on a conversation that ceased the moment the three of them walked in the door. Tonks smiled brightly and they both welcomed Hermione warmly, but Ginny couldn't help but wonder what they'd been talking about. It didn't have to be Order business, she supposed, it could have been something of a personal nature, even though it was strange to think of them having personal lives. She still thought of Lupin as a teacher and it was hard to see him as anything else. Tonks, perhaps; she'd told Ginny all kinds of stories about her life, but she couldn't imagine Tonks and Lupin having a conversation about, say, their love lives. 

Dinner was more or less a pleasant affair. It was good to have Hermione there. She told them about how Viktor was getting on – Ron looked somewhat disgruntled at the very mention of his name – and then discussed how her OWLs had gone with Lupin. 

"You'll be getting the results shortly, won't you?" he said. 

Ron covered his ears at this point. As far as Ginny could see, he'd rather not get them at all. She supposed he didn't need to hear Hermione going on about how she needed certain grades if she wanted to take particular subjects at NEWT level, and the sort of classes that every career required. Ginny was amazed at her encyclopaedic knowledge; how on earth did she remember all that stuff? And why would anyone want to? 

Summer was the time for letting yourself relax a bit, she thought, and giving your brain a rest. Still, Hermione did get a sort of glow about her when she spoke knowledgeably about anything. She was really quite pretty, Ginny realised. Well, she'd known that, of course, for ages, but seeing someone on a regular basis made you forget that kind of thing. No wonder someone like Viktor Krum was interested in her. Brains and beauty, Ginny thought, and wondered why half the school wasn't in love with Hermione. 

And why it was _her_ being inundated with owls from Michael, Neville and Dean. Maybe it was the Quidditch factor, she thought. Did boys have a thing about girls who played Quidditch? But that had been partly why things had ended with Michael, and Dean cared more about football than Quidditch, and Neville – well, Neville supported Quidditch for the sake of school spirit, but as far as she knew he didn't have any particular interest in it. It couldn't be that. Perhaps they just had a bizarre fetish for redheads, she pondered. Ginny was not terribly enamoured of the flaming hair that was the Weasley legacy, but she'd grown to tolerate it, at least. 

It was funny how attractions developed, really. Maybe it wasn't always logical. Maybe it just happened. Perhaps she should ask Luna sometime and get a Ravenclaw's opinion on the subject, although she suspected Luna would have a slightly quirkier answer than most of her housemates. Maybe she was just never going to understand the way the male mind worked. 

After dinner Hermione went upstairs to unpack. Ron followed her up, and Ginny was about to join them when Tonks called out to her. 

"Any more owls today?" she enquired, smiling. Her hair was in blonde pigtails today; she looked like some Swedish milkmaid. 

"Two," Ginny sighed, settling down for a conversation. "Neville's still talking about coming for a visit, and Michael's thinking about breaking up with Cho." 

"Really? I thought they sounded like the perfect couple." 

"I think it's a new tactic he's trying to make me jealous," Ginny said. "Going on about how wonderful she is didn't work, so now he's saying that he misses me more than he realised and wants to know if we could have another chance." 

"And what did you say to that?" 

"I haven't said anything yet. I don't know what to say. I don't want to get back with him. He's nice, but –" 

"That's it?" 

"Yeah," Ginny said heavily. "I don't – I don't even think I want to be in a relationship right now. Dean's getting on my nerves, and there's no one else that I like." 

Tonks nodded. "Sometimes it's best to be single." 

"Are you?" Ginny wanted to know. 

"What?" Tonks seemed to be playing the innocent. 

"Single? No men in your life?" 

"Oh, there's plenty of men," Tonks laughed. "Just none that are particularly special, right now." 

"What about Lupin?" 

"What about him?" 

"He's pretty special," Ginny said. Not for her, obviously. But he and Tonks did seem to be close . . . 

"Oh, he is. But he's still – I couldn't, Ginny. He's still very upset about Sirius . . . it'll take him a long time to get over that." 

Ginny nodded. Suddenly it seemed trivial to be talking about romance. She went upstairs instead. 

Hermione was curled up on the bed, with Crookshanks at her feet, reading, but put the book down once Ginny walked in. 

"Finished unpacking already?" Ginny asked. 

"More or less," Hermione said. "I've unpacked everything I'll need while I'm here, anyway. The rest is for school." 

"What are you reading?" Ginny had got into the habit of asking Hermione this question, mostly because Hermione smiled slightly every time someone took an interest in whatever book she had in front of her. 

"Just a biography, nothing exciting," Hermione said. 

Ginny sat at the end of the bed and reached out to pet Crookshanks, who purred contentedly. "Michael's thinking about breaking up with Cho," she said. "He wants us to get back together." 

Hermione exhaled sharply. "That boy is just – too much. You don't want to get back with him, do you?" 

"No." She expected Hermione to look pleased with her, proud of her for being independent and strong and not desperate for the affections of some boy, but instead she just looked distracted. "Hermione, are you all right?" 

"What? Yes, I'm fine, just – tired." 

Ginny looked at her closely. She did look tired. Maybe that really was all that it was. Still, she found herself stroking the fur on Crookshanks's back gently and tenderly, as though Hermione would somehow receive the physical comfort that her cat was being given. 

"Maybe you should get some rest, have an early night," Ginny suggested, and then experienced a moment of panic as she realised that she was, in fact, turning into her mother. Except her mother would probably have been more forceful about it. 

"Yes, Mum," Hermione teased. 

"Shut up. I was just thinking how Mum-like that sounded. I've been cooped up in here for weeks, it's getting to me." 

Hermione was smiling now, so everything had to be all right. 

Hermione was murmuring in her sleep. What exactly she was murmuring, Ginny couldn't tell, and she wasn't sure she particularly wanted to know. Exhaustion was winning out over curiosity at this hour of the night. She'd been tossing and turning for what felt like most of the night at this stage now – it felt as though it should be light outside already, even though the night was nowhere near finished. 

She burrowed beneath her duvet, but she could still hear the sounds. It wasn't quite as bad as snoring, she supposed, but it was still irritating when someone was trying to sleep. Since when did Hermione talk in her sleep, anyway? 

Of course, they usually went to sleep at around the same time. Hermione had fallen asleep quickly, and Ginny had been just about to drift off when the murmurs began. 

She squeezed her eyes shut, and was about to go over and poke Hermione in an attempt to get her to shut up when she heard noises from downstairs. 

It wasn't the first time there had been some kind of commotion in the middle of the night, even if it was only a disagreement between Order members getting out of hand. But it was the first time this summer that it had happened. And that was definitely a door opening, which meant that someone had arrived. 

She was torn between going downstairs to try and find out what was going on, knowing that this was a chance to uncover some of the secrets that were being kept, and ignoring it. The desire for sleep won out again, and she lay in bed, hearing movements and murmurings and eventually, despite the distractions, fell asleep. 

She woke up from a rather wonderful dream in which she'd been pronounced Quidditch captain and OWLs had been abandoned as a method of testing Hogwarts students. A glance at the clock indicated that she'd slept late, no doubt owing to the tossing and turning of the previous night. Still, it was the summer holidays and she was entitled to a few late mornings, even if her mother believed in early nights and early mornings. 

Hermione was already up and about, it seemed. Ginny pulled her dressing-gown around her and made her way downstairs. People were still sitting around the table. She nodded, bleary-eyed, to everyone, muttering a "Morning". 

And there, sitting next to Ron, was Harry. It took Ginny a moment or two to realise that this was a new development. 

"Hi, Harry," she said. "When did you get here?" 

"Just now," he said. 

She nodded in response, and got to work on her breakfast. 

"So, how've you been?" she asked after a while, realising that the table was unusually quiet. 

"How do you think I've been?" he responded. It wasn't angry, or accusing, just – sad, and hollow. 

"Harry, she only meant – " Hermione began, but he interrupted her. 

"I know what she meant." 

The silence descended upon the table again, apart from the sound of Ginny eating, which made her slightly self-conscious. As soon as she'd finished, she retreated to her room again. As much as she'd wanted to have company this summer, the solitude of the bedroom seemed like a much more appealing alternative at that moment. She could do without having to watch every word that came out of her mouth just because Harry was still in bits over Sirius, if that was even what was going on. Maybe there was something else. She was sick of secrets being kept, she decided. If people were just honest with one another – about important things, she quickly added, she wasn't quite willing to condemn tactfulness yet – things would be a lot easier. 

She'd talk to Harry later, maybe, she decided. Explain that she hadn't meant to offend him – only he hadn't seemed offended, just – tired, and old. It reminded her a little of the way her father sounded whenever the subject of Percy came up – or was skirted around. As though a war had already been fought, and they'd lost but were too tired of fighting to even care. 

Her mother cornered her before she had the chance to talk to Harry, needing her help trying for the umpteenth time to remove the screeching portrait of Mrs Black. Ginny strongly suspected she was being kept out of the way while Hermione and Ron and Harry caught up, but she didn't complain. Maybe it was better this way. She wasn't sure how to act around Harry. Acting normal clearly wasn't going to work, and tiptoeing around him for the rest of the summer was going to get tiresome. 

She knew it was heartless, but she didn't particularly care at that moment in time. Grimmauld Place wasn't where she wanted to be spending her summer holidays, and having to watch everything she said whenever Harry around wasn't going to help. Maybe she could stay with Bill, she thought for a moment, and then realised that he wouldn't want her around. Not when he had Fleur staying over there too. Who cared about having a little sister around when you had a part-Veela who hung on your every word? 

She was surprised to find Hermione and Ron were in her bedroom when she returned, the attempt at taking down the portrait having proved to be unsuccessful once more. 

"Where's Harry?" 

"He wants to be alone," Hermione said. She looked upset. 

"So what's he doing here, then?" Ginny asked. "Why didn't he just stay with the Dursleys, if he wants to be left alone?" She realised she sounded angry, but on reflection she realised that she _was_. He'd arrived this morning and he'd disrupted everything already. 

Ron shrugged. "Dunno. Must be really bad there. They're rotten to him, Ginny, they really are." 

"So he comes here and decides to sulk, then?" she retorted. 

"Ginny, it's not like that," Hermione said. "He just – with Sirius and everything, he needs time to himself, he needs to get over it, we can't expect to understand what he's going through –" She sounded as though she were on the verge of tears. 

"Yes, poor little Harry, no one can ever understand what he's going through," she snapped. Hermione making excuses for him was making her angrier. For someone who dismissed girls being blind when it came to love, she had no problem being blind when it came to Harry, Ginny noticed. There she was, practically crying, and she was still defending him. 

Harry wasn't the only one who had ever suffered, she couldn't help but think. Memories of Tom flooded back, as well as the fear that had hung over the entire family last Christmas when her father had been injured. All right, so maybe it wasn't quite the same. Her father had recovered. But didn't he – didn't he _ever_ see that he wasn't the only one in the world with problems? 

They stared at each other for a while, Ginny on one side and Hermione and Ron on the other, before Hermione decided to play peace-maker. "I know it feels like that sometimes . . . look, we just need to give him some time right now, all right?" 

Her voice was gentle. Ginny wasn't sure whether she was being condescended to or whether Hermione really did understand. She wanted to say something, something to let them know that she did care, that she understood that Harry was _hurting_, it was just that she hated the way he had to consume their entire lives, but the words wouldn't come. 

So instead she just nodded, and then walked out, and found a corner in which to curl up in. The tears came, but she wasn't sure just what she was crying about. When she went downstairs for dinner, she felt as though the evidence was still on her face, even though she'd tried to make herself look presentable, but no one commented. 

She wondered if that meant that they were being tactful, or whether they just hadn't paid enough attention to her to notice. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Results**

She'd had that dream again. Actually, she'd had that dream four times now, which meant that it was getting harder and harder to dismiss the idea that perhaps part of her brain was trying to tell her something. 

Last night she'd woken up from the dream, and instead of being horrified, of being disgusted, of wanting to know what the _hell_ was going on, she'd just been bitterly disappointed that she'd been ripped out of that world. She'd wanted more, wanted to be in that safe space again, with arms around her, and lips pressed against her own, wanted to crawl back into her dream and throw herself into Pansy's arms again, to trace her lips with one finger before kissing her, softly, then more urgently, needing her, wanting her, desiring her – 

Desiring Pansy Parkinson. Pansy Parkinson. Of all the people. Of all the girls in the world, of all the girls at Hogwarts, her subconscious mind seemed to be insistent on overwhelming her with erotic dreams about the one she absolutely could not stand. 

Pansy Parkinson had been utterly hateful towards her for five years. Pansy Parkinson had sided with Umbridge. Pansy Parkinson's idea of a nice boy was Draco Malfoy, for God's sake. Pansy Parkinson wasn't even attractive. She was ugly. 

All right, so maybe she wasn't ugly, as such; if she didn't have her face contorted into a perpetual sneer she'd actually be all right looking, but that wasn't the point, was it? 

The point was, Hermione thought, more than a little panicked, was that she was having fantasies about Pansy Parkinson, and that definitely wasn't a good thing. 

Bad enough that it was a girl, but Pansy Parkinson? What was she _thinking?_

She was terrified someone would find out. Ginny had mentioned something about Hermione murmuring in her sleep, but when Hermione had asked – trying desperately to be casual about it, trying to act as though the words she might have mumbled wouldn't have revealed her sudden secret life – Ginny had shrugged and said she hadn't been able to make it out. 

But what if Ginny was lying? What if she knew? What if Hermione had been calling out – oh God – Pansy's _name_ in her sleep? Things had been slightly awkward between them ever since she arrived at Grimmauld Place, though Hermione supposed part of that was due to the fact that she was wary about how she behaved around Ginny now. A hug that lasted for too long, an inappropriate physical gesture, or a gaze interpreted the wrong way – she was terrified of sending out signals, of it being obvious to the world that she was having these _bizarre_ thoughts, that she wasn't normal, that she was having dreams about being intimate with another girl, and worst of all, despite the fact that she actually hated this girl in real life, she _liked_ the dreams. She liked her dream-kisses, her dream-embraces, her dream-lover. 

And she hated that she was – internally, at least – a complete and utter mess over this. She was tolerant. She was open-minded. She was completely supportive of equal rights for everyone, of banishing prejudice and promoting acceptance. If Ron suddenly turned to her and declared that he was actually thinking about asking Harry out – well, she'd be supportive, wouldn't she? It'd be a little odd, perhaps, but she wouldn't think of him any differently, would she? 

Part of her was relieved that no one could tell that part of her mind was always whirling, trying to sort out these complicated feelings and thoughts. Another part of her wondered why no one could tell. 

Of course, the person everyone was really paying attention to at the moment was Harry, so maybe it wasn't surprising that no one had noticed what was going on with her. Harry alternated between being quiet and being angry – angry ostensibly because he didn't want people asking him questions and fussing over him, but Hermione knew that it was probably just his way of dealing with his anger over Sirius's death. It had to be hard on him. She couldn't understand, and that was the frustrating thing. Of course, she was never going to understand Harry, not properly; she'd never be able to relate to him when it came to his special status as the Boy Who Lived, and even now, she couldn't relate to the loss he'd experienced. And she didn't _want_ to have had gone through it, didn't want to know what it was like, not in that way, but some part of her wished that she _had_ - so then she'd _know_, so then she'd finally have an insight into what he was going through, and so then she'd actually feel like she had something relevant to say to him, instead of statements that always sounded so clichéd and hollow when they left her mouth, even though she tried to imbue them with her need to make him feel better. 

It was hard on all of them, trying to get through to him, and inevitably failing. Being a good friend to Harry at the moment was a struggle, and part of Hermione – only a small part, but a part nonetheless – did want to slap him and tell him that they were _trying_ to help him, and would it really be too much effort to try to smile every once in a while? Then the rest of her remembered that he was suffering a lot, and that she really did have no idea what he was going through, and she berated herself for being so selfish at a time like this. 

She was sitting on her bed staring into space when Ginny came in and asked if she was okay. 

"Yeah," Hermione replied vaguely, and then explained, "I'm just thinking about Harry, that's all." Well, it was partially true. 

"You seem upset," Ginny noted. "He's not being fair to you or Ron, Hermione, why are you letting him act like this?" 

Ginny's exasperation didn't surprise Hermione; they'd been having variations of this argument ever since Harry arrived. 

"Because he's been through a lot," Hermione said, sighing. She decided it was best to change the subject. The arguments with Ginny, even though they were short and didn't appear to be doing any permanent damage to their friendship (she hoped; and besides, if anything was going to do permanent damage to their friendship it would be the knowledge that she was fantasising about Pansy Parkinson, not a silly disagreement about how to deal with Harry), wore her out. "The OWL results should be here tomorrow." 

"Tomorrow? Wow. Are you nervous?" 

Hermione shook her head. She hadn't had time to be nervous. But then, in a tidal wave of anxiety, it flooded her mind. The exams. The important exams that she hadn't even been able to concentrate on properly because of that horrible Umbridge and everything that had been going on, and it wasn't as though anyone was going to take those facts into account when they were deciding what mark to give her. What if she failed something? What if she failed _everything?_ If people did terribly, truly terribly in their OWLs, they left Hogwarts; there was no point in them staying when they clearly didn't have the ability to be there. It didn't happen often and it was done quietly, but she knew, she'd read about it. If she was lucky Professor McGonagall might put in a good word for her and she'd end up in a job that wasn't as terrible as it might have been otherwise, under the circumstances, and she'd watch Harry and Ron and Ginny and everyone else go on and finish school and get better jobs and have them feel sorry for her. She was supposed to be the smart one, but what if she wasn't? What if these tests, the first ones that weren't marked by her own teachers but by people who didn't know her, proved it? 

Suddenly, the dreams didn't seem quite so important. These results meant something; they could affect her whole future, and what if it had all gone horribly wrong and she'd done disastrously? 

"Yes. Yes, I am," she corrected herself, and Ginny looked at her sympathetically. 

"Don't worry, it's going to be all right. You're the clever one, remember?" Ginny was trying to comfort her but that only made it worse. _You're the clever one._ People had expectations of her, Hermione realised. They all thought she was going to do well, and if she didn't – 

She didn't even want to think about it. 

That night, she couldn't sleep. She looked over at Ginny, who seemed to be sleeping soundly, and then tiptoed out of the room, and all the way downstairs to the kitchen, where Professor Lupin sat, drinking a cup of cocoa and staring blankly at the wall. 

It took him a moment to realise she was there, but when he did, he smiled slightly, and conjured up a cup for her. She took a sip and sat down next to him. 

"Worried about the results?" he enquired. 

She nodded. 

"It'll be all right," he said, and then sighed. "You've heard that before, I'm sure. It probably doesn't help." 

"Not really." 

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Hermione wanted to ask him questions. Mostly she wanted to ask him how he was, how he was doing, but even that felt too personal; he was a teacher, and those kinds of questions were inappropriate. Talking about school and even politics was acceptable. Other things were not. 

"Reading anything interesting at the moment?" he asked her. Books, too, fell into the category of things that could be discussed. They were safe. Mostly. 

"A biography of Oswald Beamish," she said. That wasn't safe, and she knew it. But she wondered what he'd say. He was a teacher; he had to have read lots of books and know about things like historical figures having homosexual affairs. 

"Ah," he said thoughtfully. "A great man." 

She nodded. 

"It was a tragic ending, though," he continued. "If he'd been living today – well, things might have been different for him. Though perhaps not." 

"The book was in the Restricted Section," she said. 

He sighed. "It would be. Some people would prefer if that part of Beamish's life was forgotten about completely." 

She had finished her cocoa, but she wanted to stay. "Why are people – why are they like that?" she asked urgently. 

"People can't help who they fall in love with. For some people, that means people of the same sex. It's not unnatural, Hermione, no matter what you might have heard. Just different." 

"I meant the people who'd prefer that we forget about that part of his life," she said quietly. It had been an impassioned defence. Suddenly she was uncomfortable. 

"Oh. Well – some people do think it's wrong. To – to love someone of your own gender. They don't understand that it's still love." 

It should have reassured her, but instead she wished she hadn't brought it up. It was too personal, too intense, too much for her. 

Besides, he was talking about _love_. It was easier to accept the idea of people loving other people of the same gender. The hard part was the _desire_. It felt sordid. 

She said goodnight and left, and it was only as she was walking upstairs that she realised. _Sirius._ Oh God. They hadn't been just friends, they'd been – 

But in the next minute she dismissed that idea. She didn't even know if Lupin was gay. She was just looking for someone else, someone not-normal in that way, and he'd been there, and not horrified by the notion of it. He was just a liberal open-minded person, that was all. He understood what it was like for people to be ostracised for something they couldn't help because he had that in his life, as a werewolf. It didn't mean that he liked sleeping with men, or that he and Sirius had been lovers. 

Another thought occurred to her. Maybe he'd noticed her awkwardness. Maybe he hadn't been trying to enlighten her, maybe what he'd been doing was trying to reassure her. He was saying that it was okay. 

And it was okay. It was all okay, people being gay. She just didn't want to talk about it or maybe be that way herself. 

Hypocrite, she told herself angrily as she crawled into bed. 

Neither the cocoa nor the talk had helped, and she was still tossing and turning by dawn. She could hear movement downstairs, and eventually forced herself to give up on the idea of getting any sleep, even though she knew she'd be exhausted before dinner time. 

The owls arrived early, before even Harry or Ron had woken up. Hermione contemplated waiting, and then slowly opened her post while Mrs Weasley went to tell them that their results had arrived. 

She stared at the sheet of parchment blankly for a moment before it sank in. She hadn't failed. Quite the opposite, in fact. She went through the subjects one by one just to make sure. Yes. Twelve of them, twelve O's in a row. 

She sank into the nearest chair in relief, and then felt her mouth stretch into a grin. 

Both Harry and Ron had got on well, and they spent the day having Mrs Weasley fuss over the three of them, and the others offering congratulations. A bottle of Firewhiskey was produced in the evening, and Ron took an enthusiastic gulp, only to find his eyes watering. 

"That stuff's strong," he said dazedly. 

Ginny knocked back a considerable amount of the stuff before Mrs Weasley realised what she was doing, and moved the bottle over to the other side of the table. Hermione's glass was still mostly full. It tasted horrible, and yet she was oddly fascinated by it. Something so horrible had to produce amazing results; otherwise why would people drink it? She wasn't able to drink it as quickly as the others, merely taking small sips at regular intervals, but she was relieved of that fact when, as she put down her glass for the last time, Ron bolted from the room, looking decidedly green. 

"I'd better go see if he's all right," Hermione said, standing up. 

Harry nodded, and Ginny, looking as though she was coming part out of concern and part out of need to throw up herself, followed her out. The three of them huddled outside the nearest bathroom, where Ron was – from the sounds of it – being very, very ill indeed. 

"All right, Ron?" Hermione called. 

"Yes, I'm bloody spectacular," he snapped, before vomiting again. 

"I was only asking!" she said, finding it all quite amusing. She started laughing, and Harry joined in. It was good to see him happy. Ginny laughed, too, so hard that she slid from her position leaning against the wall, and ended up slumped on the floor. This only served to make them all chortle even more. 

"I can't get up!" Ginny announced, which seemed to be the most hilarious event of all. 

"Come on," Hermione said, offering her a hand and helping her up. "You should probably get to bed," she added, realising that Ginny was the most inebriated of the lot of them – except, perhaps, for poor Ron. 

"I don't want to go to bed!" she shrieked. "You can't make me." 

"Let's go up to mine and Ron's room," Harry suggested. He knocked on the door of the bathroom. "Ron, you finished in there, mate?" 

After a moment, the door opened, and a paler Ron emerged. "Yeah. Better out than in, right? Worse than the slugs, it was." 

Stumbling and leaning on each other considerably, they made their way to the boys' room. Ron threw himself on his bed right away, while the other three arranged themselves on Harry's. Hermione and Ginny were side-by-side, leaning against the wall, while Harry propped his feet on Hermione's lap. 

"Hello, feet," she said, giggling. 

"Hello, Hermione," he said, wiggling his toes at her. 

She was conscious of Ginny's head resting on her shoulder, but it made her less uncomfortable than it normally would have. So what if she had a close female friend? Didn't mean anything. Just because she thought about some girls in romantic ways didn't mean that she was into every single girl she encountered, did it? Happy to have reached this conclusion, Hermione relaxed, and smiled. Everything in the world was all right. She'd done well in her exams, better than even she had hoped, and everyone was happy, and Harry was smiling, and it was all just wonderful. 

"This is nice, isn't it?" she said. "Us – all here – isn't it?" 

Harry laughed. "You're drunk," he proclaimed. 

"I am not," Hermione said indignantly. "I only had one glass." 

Ginny giggled. "No you didn't. We kept topping it up when you weren't looking." 

Hermione found this hysterical. "That's why it took so long to drink it! I just thought it was because it tasted so rotten…" 

"Heh, he's asleep," Ginny interrupted her, pointing over at Ron. 

"Awww, that's sweet," Hermione said fondly. 

"Yeah, it's sweet he's passed out," Harry snorted. 

She tickled the soles of his feet in punishment for that, and he squirmed so much that he fell off the bed. Even his indignant "Hey!" didn't stop the girls from laughing. He stayed on the floor, pushing himself to a sitting position, and looked up at them. 

"You two look sweet, too," he commented. "Like a picture." 

"Now who's drunk?" Hermione said. 

"Harry is," Ginny said decisively, and then yawned and curled up even closer to Hermione. The red tendrils were falling onto her own shoulder. Hermione pushed them away, and began tucking them behind Ginny's ears. It was a soothing routine. 

She wasn't sure which of them moved first, but suddenly they had moved, and their lips were touching, were pressed against each other. Her eyes closed automatically, but at Harry clearing his throat pointedly, they opened immediately, and she was jolted back to reality. 

"I could let you have the bed, but I don't think Ron'd be too happy to wake up to find you two…" Harry began, half-smiling. 

"It's okay, we're going to bed," Hermione said, and then bit her lip. "Not – not like that." 

Harry didn't look as though he believed her. 

They didn't talk as they went back to their own room. Ginny seemed too sleepy to need to, and Hermione was perfectly content to be silent. She didn't know what she would say. Had they really just – kissed? Her and Ginny? 

In front of Harry, too? Once they reached their room, they crawled into separate beds, murmured goodnight, and turned off the lights. Hermione could hear Ginny snoring softly within a matter of minutes, but sleep seemed to be eluding her once more that night. She'd kissed Ginny, or Ginny had kissed her, or however it had happened, and Harry had seen. If only she could turn back time, she thought desperately. If only she still had her Time-Turner. She could warn herself not to do anything stupid. 

Memory modifiers, she thought, feeling hopeful for a moment before realising that she wasn't nearly knowledgeable enough to handle them, certainly not one specific enough to block out a single memory and nothing more. She'd seen what memory modifiers gone wrong could do to people. She wouldn't risk it. 

Maybe no one would remember the next morning. Or maybe everything would be okay, maybe they'd just all agree that people did silly things when they were drunk, and no one would think any more of it. It was this hope that let her finally drift off into unconsciousness, and she fell into what was thankfully a dreamless sleep. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Secrets**

The light was far too bright when Ginny opened her eyes, so she squeezed them shut and burrowed underneath the covers, determined to stay there forever and hide from the harsh light of day – a plan that was thwarted when a wave of nausea rode over her, and she was forced to leap out of bed and run to the nearest bathroom to deposit the contents of her stomach into the toilet. 

So this is what it's like to be hungover, she thought blearily as she slumped onto the floor. When it felt as though she might be able to move without it bringing on the need to vomit, she stood up and slowly made her way back to her bedroom. 

Tonks was there, perched on the side of Hermione's bed. When she heard Ginny enter, she stood up, and grinned. "How're you feeling?" 

"I've been better," Ginny said. She looked at Hermione, who seemed to have just woken up, and the second their eyes met, panic flashed across Hermione's face. She looked away, and it hit Ginny a second later. Something had – yes, there'd been a kiss, hadn't there? She'd kissed Hermione – or had Hermione kissed her? She could hardly remember. Where, and when – had they been in the boys' room, or was that just a dream? Ginny decided she hated not knowing; her head hurt far too much to try and piece it all together and it really would have been a lot easier if she could remember things clearly. 

"Take this," Tonks said, handing her a vial of a pale pink liquid. Ginny looked at it doubtfully, and then drained its contents, deciding that she'd try anything that might help. It tasted revolting, leaving a bad taste in her mouth. 

"Ugh," she muttered. "Yuck." 

Tonks made a sympathetic face, and pulled another vial out of her pocket for Hermione. "The boys are still in bed," she said chattily as Hermione drank. "Ron seems in a pretty bad way." 

"I don't think Firewhiskey is a good idea," Ginny said weakly. 

"Everything in moderation," Tonks grinned. "You'll be fine in a minute or two, don't worry. Molly's downstairs making breakfast." 

Eating was the last thing on Ginny's mind, but Hermione had turned over and didn't seem to have any inclination to get up any time soon, and she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to hang around upstairs with someone when she couldn't remember what had happened the night before. She allowed Tonks to lead the way downstairs. 

The potion or whatever it had been appeared to have done the trick. Within a few minutes Ginny felt much better, but unfortunately her memory remained as clouded as ever. After breakfast she cornered Harry to ask him about the night before. She could remember Ron being ill; that much as least was clear, so Harry was probably the best person to ask. Unless of course she'd kissed him too. No, she couldn't have, wouldn't have – would she? Which was more unlikely, kissing him or Hermione? She really had no idea. 

"Did I – did you – what the hell happened last night?" she asked. 

"There was Firewhiskey and it was a bad idea," he said. 

"I know that part," she said impatiently. "Did anything – were me and Hermione, did we go back to your room?" 

He frowned. "Yeah, we were all there, and Ron was passed out, and – oh. I remember now." 

"Well?" 

"Are you sure you want to know?" He seemed reluctant to tell her, as though bad news were about to be imparted. It only made her more certain that she had to find out exactly what had happened. 

"Yes. Tell me." 

"You kissed Hermione." 

"I did?" 

"Yeah, or she kissed you, or – look, I don't know. I looked away for a second and then suddenly the two of you were all over each other. Good thing Ron was passed out." 

"Don't tell him about it," she said. 

"Ginny, he's my best mate – " 

"Yeah, and it was a drunken thing that doesn't mean anything, and the last thing anyone needs is him stomping around the place because the girl he might have a thing for kissed his little sister, all right?" 

"Does Ron have a thing for Hermione?" Harry asked as though it were a desperately shocking revelation. 

"Oh, Merlin, not you too," she sighed. A week or two ago she'd been wondering why Hermione didn't have so many suitors, and now suddenly Harry had been added to the list that Ron was probably also on. 

"What? No, I don't like her, not in that way, but – Ron? He never told me." 

Ginny shrugged. "I don't know whether he does or he doesn't, to be honest with you, I just think he might. Anyway, just don't tell him about last night, all right?" 

"All right," Harry nodded. 

And that was that. She thought that perhaps Harry might use the knowledge as some kind of blackmail or something, tease her with it or threaten to tell Ron, but clearly that was just a sign she'd actually started missing Fred and George irritating her, because Harry withdrew into himself again, and it was as though they'd never had that conversation. 

She wasn't expecting the badge, when it came – being chosen as a Prefect definitely wasn't something she'd anticipated. And, she thought, not something she'd particularly hoped for, either. Oh, of course it was an honour, and there was a certain glow at the thought that she had actually proven herself worthy at something, that she'd been chosen, that she wasn't the useless one in the family, but – well, it sounded like a lot more hassle than it was worth, really, and she didn't really warm to the idea of having to tell people off when they weren't behaving properly, or keep an eye on the first years, or anything like that. Hermione was the sort of girl who was Prefect material. Ginny definitely wasn't. 

Owls arrived from various sources. The twins wrote a letter to Ron and Ginny expressing their solemn disappointment in Ron's good OWL results and Ginny's position of responsibility. Ginny kept hoping to hear from Percy, hoping that this wretched badge would have at least one useful purpose and make her seem worthy in his eyes, but there was no word from him. 

Her mother kept fussing over how wonderful this was and how proud she was of her. Ron reassured her that this would die down in a few days. Hermione congratulated her rather stiffly. There had been an awful lot of stiffness between them lately and Ginny was one hundred percent sure that she could trace the origin of it back to the morning after the night of the kiss. 

She kept on having arguments with Hermione in her head, in which she was wonderfully eloquent and knew exactly what she wanted to say, but so far she hadn't been able to bring up the subject, and the longer it went on for, the more ridiculous it seemed. Why should she have to say something, anyway? She wasn't the one who was behaving so strangely just because of one little drunken kiss that she could barely remember. It was Hermione who should be apologising, who should talk about it and analyse it to death if she felt the need to do so. 

And anyway, Ginny didn't know what to say because she really couldn't remember what exactly had happened, or who had kissed who, and it seemed stupid to start discussing something when she didn't even have the basic facts. 

She was hoping Tonks would pick up on some of the tenseness that seemed to be floating around the house, concentrating wherever she and Hermione were at any particular moment, but Tonks seemed distracted and their conversations grew less and less frequent, leaving Ginny feeling rather alone despite being in a house full of people. 

She ended up taking Neville up on his offer and meeting him for a Butterbeer one afternoon. He looked alarmingly happy to see her, his round face lighting up with what she felt was an inappropriate amount of joy. 

"I, um – d'you think we might, maybe, we could go out sometime?" he suggested shyly once they'd ordered. 

She hesitated for a moment and it took only that for his face to fall. 

"Never mind," he muttered. 

"Oh, no, it's not that," she said, reaching out to pat his arm from across the table. "It's just –" 

"You and Dean. I should have known." 

"No, it's not, it's – it's someone else," she said. "And we're not together or anything, but I – I don't know." 

Neville looked at her, puzzled. 

"I really don't know," she said softly, and then smiled brightly at him. "Let's talk about something else." 

The rest of the time was taken up with talk about school and the Order. Ginny chattered on for a while about how she didn't actually want to be a Prefect and how it was over-rated and silly, really, and Neville smiled and nodded, and they tried to figure out exactly what the Order might be up to, but neither of them had any idea and as soon as the conversation ran dry, the awkwardness returned, and there was a mutual decision to part ways. Or rather, Ginny made an excuse about having to get back and Neville nodded and said that he better had too, his gran was waiting for him, and they scurried away from one another as fast as they could. 

She hadn't said that the someone else was someone she was romantically interested in. Not in so many words. Okay, so maybe it had been implied, but there was still room for doubt. And anyway she'd only said it to try and deflect the blow for Neville. Never mind that she'd had a moment of panic when it occurred to her that actually what she was saying might be close to the truth, and it might very well be that there was a someone else, a someone else that she'd kissed one night and hadn't had a decent conversation with since. 

She tried to sort it out in her head, cursing her living situations for leaving her with far too much time to think and not enough time to do anything useful, like practise Quidditch, and came to the conclusion that maybe she liked Hermione and maybe she didn't, but the most pressing issue at the moment wasn't sorting that out, but dispelling the chill between them. 

She was waiting in their room for Hermione to return from wherever she was – Ginny had no idea whether she spent her days with Ron and Harry or whether she'd found some corner to curl up in with a book – when there was a commotion downstairs, and curiosity meant that she was down the stairs in a flash. Not a literal flash, unfortunately, unlike Tonks and Lupin who Apparated just as she reached the last step. 

Several people were rushing in from outside, including a bloodied and bruised Harry. Ginny looked at him in shock before he was hurried on past, into the kitchen. She moved to join them, but Tonks held her back. "You can't go in there, Ginny. It's – just go back upstairs, all right?" 

"What's going on?" she demanded, but Tonks refused to answer, instead holding her firmly and guiding her up the stairs. She finally let go and Ginny returned to her room, creeping out a few moments later to find out what exactly was going on. She pressed her ear against the heavy kitchen door but it had been sealed; she couldn't hear a thing. 

There were footsteps on the stairs. Hermione and Ron. 

"What's going on?" Ron asked. 

Ginny clenched her fists. "I don't know. They won't tell me, they won't let me in there, and Harry's in there, looking like he's been in a fight or something, he's bleeding. He came in with some of the people in the Order." 

"Where was he?" Hermione wanted to know. 

Ginny shrugged. They turned to Ron, who looked equally baffled. "I didn't even know he'd gone… said he wanted some time to himself, but I didn't know he'd gone out, you'd think he would have said…" 

"Well, he didn't, clearly," Hermione snapped. 

Ron glared at her. "No need to take it out on me." 

Hermione sighed. "Sorry. Just – why won't they tell us what's going on? Do you think he got into trouble, and the Order came to his rescue? I don't like to think of him going off on his own and – well, last summer it was Dementors, and if he's out there, alone – well, there's a lot of people out there who aren't entirely fond of him." 

"Yeah, but he's fine, right?" Ron said, looking at Ginny for reassurance. "Just a bit battered, but all right, yeah?" 

Ginny nodded. "Yeah. I mean," she said to Hermione, who seemed to need comforting more than Ron, or perhaps she just felt the need to comfort Hermione more, "he's been in much worse scraps before. You know what he's like. Things happen to him, but he's a survivor." 

They sat on the stairs, waiting. Hermione spent the time biting her lip and Ginny was reminded of how much she disliked the décor of the place. Ron kept on shifting positions and sighing impatiently, as though by exhaling the world would suddenly decide to let him in on all the secrets they currently weren't privy to. 

"Do you have to keep doing that?" Hermione snapped. 

"What else am I supposed to do?" Ron glared right back at her. 

"Cut it out," Ginny said tiredly, not particularly wishing to devote too much energy to breaking up a potential argument between them. 

"I don't know, anything, something useful," Hermione spoke to Ron as though Ginny hadn't said a thing. 

"It's not as though you're being incredibly productive either," Ron retorted. "You could at least go look up a book or something, it's about all you're good at." 

"Oh, and what's your skill, Ron, being a lazy unmotivated slob?" 

"SHUT UP!" Ginny screamed, standing up. "I know you're angry and upset and scared, and I know that Harry's the centre of the universe and it's a big deal when things happen to him, but please, please, stop FIGHTING!" 

She sat back down again, and then stood up again, and then wandered up the stairs in the need to get away from both of them, and from whatever was going on downstairs. Her cheeks were hot, with both rage and embarrassment. It probably hadn't been necessary to yell at them. But they'd been behaving so – irritatingly. And insulting each other – they weren't usually so vitriolic, and either this was all about them being secretly madly attracted to each other, or else it was all about Harry and his life, and she decided she hated it, hated it all, and that she was utterly sick of all of this. She wanted to be back at school, or out on the Quidditch pitch, or wandering around Diagon Alley, or at _home_, anywhere but here. 

Hermione had followed her up the stairs. "I'm sorry about the fighting," she said in a small voice. 

"I'm sorry about the screaming," Ginny offered. 

They stared at each other for a moment, and then Ginny said, "I'm sorry about – the other thing. That night. I don't even really remember what happened, but – well, things haven't been the same since, and I just –" 

"Yeah," Hermione said, her face reddening, "I think we'd better just forget it ever happened. We probably shouldn't have had so much to drink. Alcohol clouds people's judgement." She looked as though she were about to launch into a speech on the exact effects of alcohol, but then thought better of it. 

A door opened downstairs and they could hear Harry's voice, and Ron's. The girls moved to join them. Hermione seemed relieved at the distraction and Ginny wasn't entirely sure she wasn't. The levels of awkwardness had been even higher than her time with Neville. 

Harry had been cleaned up and tended to, it seemed, or perhaps Ginny had only imagined that he'd been injured. The adults departed, nodding in greeting to the four gathered on the stairs as they passed by, and then Harry filled them in. 

He'd gone out to meet Hagrid and ended up running into one of the Ministry, who had attempted to hex him. Fortunately one of the Order had been shadowing the man, suspecting him of having switched sides, and had stepped in just in time, though Harry hadn't managed to completely escape injury in the fight that had ensued. 

He told the story staring at the ceiling. Ron wanted all the gory details, but Hermione elbowed him when he asked. "He's just had a traumatic experience, Ron," she pointed out. "It's okay if you don't want to talk about it, Harry." 

It was only later, back in their room, that Hermione pointed out to Ginny that Harry hadn't explained why so many of the Order had turned up. And he hadn't said why he was going to meet Hagrid, either. 

"I don't want to push him for all the details," she said, "but I just get the feeling he's not telling us everything." 

Ginny considered this. "He's probably not," she concluded, "but if there was anything big going on – he'd tell us, right? Well, you and Ron, anyway." 

"I suppose," Hermione said, although she sounded doubtful. 

"He knows how frustrating it is not to know things, he wouldn't want you two to be left out," she continued. "The other things probably just aren't important, that's all. You're making too much out of this." 

"Do you really think so?" Hermione asked, and then considered it. "Perhaps." 

In reality Ginny wasn't entirely sure. Hermione pointing out the things Harry hadn't explained had sent a chill down her spine. But she did believe that if it was something crucial, Harry couldn't have kept it to himself. And anything else? Well, she thought, everyone was entitled to their secrets. 


End file.
